Tethered Worlds: Star in Bankruptcy

by Gregory Faccone

  Lansing lunged forward again and found out how wrong that was. A fine bolt arced down from the espy, stinging his arm. He recoiled with a yelp.

  “You stuck up—” he turned back to his friends. “Little help, pawns.”

  Perhaps he figured the espy had a limited stun floater function. That it only had a single zap in it before needing to charge. In a sense he was right. But what did he think was going to happen trying to bully Sloan at her own investiture? This guy was devoid of any thoughts beyond the next few seconds.

  Where's security when we need them? Probably escorting out hoop girl…

  Jordahk stepped in front of Sloan. He couldn't help it.

  “Jordahk Wilcrest,” Lansing said. He acted as though finding the name was some great feat. He stopped just short of arm's-length. “So your father's one of those sticks in the Assembly trying to take us backwards. Faux, we would've been cutting-edge.”

  So the boy had some knowledge after all. Although Jordahk suspected it was the media feeds and constant updates the egress would have afforded that Lansing really lamented. Everything an egress provides comes with a price.

  Two of Lansing's ruffians approached.

  “What's wrong with you?” Sloan demanded.

  “It's time for the perks of being your escort,” Lansing said. “I'll take that dance now.”

  Even though Sloan had developed quite a bit since their relationship, her touch was still familiar. Her scent rekindled memories. He had no time for a well considered choice. Was he going to allow these losers, who let themselves get intoxicated on CwanJaan, embarrass Sloan for 30 seconds until security arrived? No way. Not on her Investiture. It might get him in trouble, and certainly cause a spectacle, but she would be insulated, and enjoy the rest of her night. It wasn't really a choice at all.

  He still felt a connection to the espy. It was too easy to modify its function. To buildup all its remaining current for a discharge into a ruffian's head. Unnervingly easy.

  A brighter arc lit out into the dome of a ruffian. His body jerked and he staggered back into the crowd. A tiny wisp of smoke trailed off his scalp. The espy fell lifeless to the floor.

  An enraged Lansing reached for Sloan, who remained behind Jordahk. Finding his way frustrated, he predictably took a swing. After sparring against his father's bone-crushing punches, so deftly delivered, this might as well have been in slow motion. Jordahk tried to make the whole incident nonchalant, and dodged the punch almost as if he didn't see it. It skimmed his cheek.

  The other ruffian never arrived. He was stopped short by a slight hand appearing from behind, lifting up his chin. He staggered backwards on his toes. When he reached around to stop whoever was toppling him, his arm was wrenched up behind his back. A classic Pankido rear attack, successfully executed.

  Solia appeared from behind, making eye contact as she pulled the ruffian away. Jordahk had time to give her a nod of acknowledgment, a kind of brothers-in-arms thing. She accepted it with a smile and something more. He felt as though she was trying to prove something to him. He didn't know what it was.

  As Lansing finally got around to his second punch, Jordahk racked his brain for ways to de-escalate the situation. He spun around to avoid the blow, and in the process stretched Sloan out in a twirl that the casual observer might see as a dance move.

  “Go with it,” Jordahk sub-whispered to her.

  She rolled her eyes on the outside, but transmitted back, “Thanks.”

  Once she was playing along, he pulled her to himself with dramatic flair, spun them both and swept Lansing's legs. He went down hard on his butt, with a shocked look on his face.

  Then security finally showed up. Two men in dark clothing and bracers. One was wearing a shocker jacket because Lansing's eyes bulged and his body went stiff as he was escorted away. Solia must've filled them in on the situation, because they did not return, allowing the dance with Sloan to continue. With luck, only a few people would know it was really a fight.

  Sloan looked around while they danced and raised her voice. “Didn't I ask you not to play out that stupid cineVAD scene again tonight?”

  “Sorry about that. You know guys. We just like to have fun.” He said it with equal volume to complete their charade. The Investiture continued with minimal interruption, and perhaps more importantly, minimal embarrassment for Sloan. They continued dancing in a close embrace. “Good one,” he whispered to her.

  She smiled an old, special smile and he suddenly realized how pressed together they were. The last time they had danced this close, there was a lot less of her to press against. He tried to loosen their hold, but she wouldn't have it.

  “Hey now, let the Lady-Ms have her way,” she teased. “We must keep up appearances.”

  How do I get into these things?

  “I think I'll take a cruise to celebrate Investiture,” she continued. “I've never been to Patram.”

  Safeguards in his heart began to crumble. He needed to bolster them before it was too late. He stared her in the eye but then had to look away to say what he must.

  “Sloan… I've told you, it's not our destiny to be together.” Her eyes closed a long blink, then opened with new determination. “Plus people around me tend to get hurt of late.”

  “First of all, it's Crown Nebula. Luxurious and eminently safe. Secondly, I want to get away from all this.” Her façade of determination began to melt. “I still consider Vittora my friend, and… it would be nice to be around people who know me well. Where I can just be myself.”

  It might be what she needed, but it didn't sound carefree for him. Trapped on a starliner with Solia and Sloan, who may spend the entire trip having a battle of wits. Not to mention his parents, who no doubt will conscript him to train incessantly. But it would be selfish for him to shoot the idea down, even if he could, which he doubted. Once Sloan was determined to act, she was hard to dissuade. Perhaps the sour end with Lansing hit a deeper note than he realized. Maybe the considerations of official adulthood were weighing on her.

  “Look, Sloan—”

  Surprising grit returned to her pretty features. “I'm past investiture now, and I'm going. So you might as well enjoy spending some time with me.”

  Chapter Eight

  "Do you know who you are?”

  “Yes,” the text on the VAD responded.

  “Do you understand the nature and priority of your dual personas?”

  “Yes, my primary persona can only be revealed upon authorized command.”

  Dysig disliked the hand-holding stage of advanced AIs, and accelerated it wherever he could. Multiple VADs scrolled code around him, highlighting logic trees and simulated emotional response. He could do it so much faster and better without the stodgy limitations at Operis Apparaticum. In his opinion, civilization's greatest android makers were riding on reputation.

  It's certainly not innovation.

  Their android bodies were second to none, but the brains had become staid. Upstart android manufacturers were taking market share with inferior products because of two factors. First, cost. A new generation of android owners were unwilling to shell out significant coin for an Operis when supposedly comparable models were available for less elsewhere.

  I can't help them with that one. If they want a second-class body, they can have it. Disgusting.

  The other factor was AI. The cold demeanor of Operis androids had become a sort of status symbol among the very wealthy. But those now entering that class never heard the bogeyman stories from their parents about android/human cohabitation. They were looking for a warmer emotional response from their imitation humans.

  Admittedly, that initial infatuation with androids era was fraught with problems and did turn out dreadfully. But androids had come so far since then, both in body and simulated mind. Dysig knew he could do it better now. But the ancient bitmasters at Operis couldn't see past their own flawed programming. They insisted that although androids had improved, humans were more or less the same. They were nev
er going to let him take the risks necessary to advance the art. Their ship was in a slow, decaying orbit.

  With the covering of the Prime Orator, rules bind me no longer.

  “Your new owner hates you,” Dysig said.

  The provocation stimulated a response. He scrutinized the spikes as the process was analyzed. The logic trees which led the AI to emotional reactions were dissected.

  “I don't know why he would. I'm exemplary in every way,” the text said.

  He erased his last input, something easier to do while the AI was in assembly.

  “Your new owner is very pleased with your initiative.”

  The responses swelled, almost simulating the irrationality of a human. Very un-Operis. They were all about steady, predictable reliability. Operis AIs were loyal, and free from even a single case of AI psychosis. But the price was boredom with aloof, frigid AIs. Today's generation wanted more, and he could give it to them because no one understood AIs like him.

  With no restrictions and unlimited funding, he was creating a prototype upon which he could build a corporate empire that would eclipse Operis. Dwarf the cyberthinkers of Hexadecimal. He was already imagining his castle on Chryson Genos, far from stifling limits the older worlds insisted upon.

  ▪ ▫ ▪

  Crown Nebula was the Aquarii of starlines. Top quality, safe, and plying the most popular routes. They were based out of Frulieste, the growing luxury goods powerhouse of the mid-Asterfraeo. For a time, after the war, the majority of their runs originated from the once militaristic, now more cosmopolitan Palisades worlds. The inhabitants of those planets, bordering the Perigeum, sought escapes to more exotic places deeper in the Asterfraeo.

  They marveled at the Neo-Renaissance of Utica Cyr, sought solace among the cathedrals of Patram, and savored the pure foods of Haelan. But that had been turned on its head in recent decades. Now the once fiercely independent mid-Asterfraeo populace was seeking the cosmopolitan delights nearer the Perigeum. The tourist trade was growing in places like Windermere, and starliners were already lining up to dock at Castellum's new premier station, High Castle.

  Crown Nebula kept pace with evolving trends, but never forgot their independent Asterfraeo roots. They still catered to a populace that were culturally repulsed by a heavy governmental hand, and who liked their pistols.

  The Astral Duchess was not the newest starliner in the Crown Nebula fleet, but it was well cared for, and upgraded with regularity. Its amenities were excellent, and it was those amenities, specifically the spacious and new advanced pistol range, of which Kord took advantage.

  “I'm amazed how fast you got this gig,” Jordahk said.

  “I've worked with Crown Nebula before, when clients were generous enough to book us with them.” Kord surveyed the modifications he and Jordahk had done to the range. “Our training seminars have a good rep. For the captain it was a boon that I offered to run one on his ship. It only increases his cachet.”

  “And increases our coin line.” Jordahk smiled, pointing a finger up.

  “The last two years haven't been cheap for us, Jordahk. Is it my fault the Perigeum keeps blowing up our fanicles? Do you know how much it's going to cost to refurbish that owl?”

  “They do seem to take it out on vehicles. Even rentals, like that bus last year.”

  “Aristahl can afford it. For us, it's wise to accomplish as much as we can on this trip. A new era of responsibility has dawned upon us, thanks to your grandfather. It wouldn't do for us to be financially strapped and unable to participate.”

  Jordahk helped his parents run seminars for years, but never aboard a Crown Nebula ship. The high-end range easily took their programmed, custom training scenarios and duplicated them with the facilities on hand. Much of their physical equipment, packed for impromptu gigs, was unnecessary.

  “We still using these?” Jordahk asked.

  His son held one of their fast-moving, autonomous targets. “Yeah, for the approach drills.”

  Jordahk rolled it down range. “Max, hold these in the forward alcove.”

  “Solia and I are just wrapping up the safety and protocol,” Vittora commed. “Ready in five.”

  Kord gave the range control VAD a final once-over. “Thanks. Make sure they're squared away and ready to be stressed.”

  He preferred outdoor ranges. The smell of fresh air while shooting under an open sky was a special experience. But without Goldy, all the VAD simulations and other bells and whistles would come in handy. He hoped they could restore the command model. They determined his best chance would be a controlled restoration reboot with Barrister. No doubt the head of a Perigeum combat bot raised eyebrows when their bags were security screened. But considering the case of loaner weapons, ammunition and other assorted seminar materials they traveled with, it wasn't too much more of a stretch to swallow.

  Jordahk stood beside him, looking at the VAD. “Whoa, this score is a cut above.”

  The range kept recordings of top shooters on the standardized pistol confidence courses.

  “He's a hot shot.” Kord brought up more information. “Shows up all over.”

  “You know the top shooters. Who is this guy?”

  “It's the Astral Duchess's first officer,” Max said.

  “Not a bad score on a level three confidence course.” Kord acknowledged the deed, but wasn't too impressed. “If you look hard enough, you'll find someone with a particular combat skill higher than yours.” Then he got serious. “But remember son, most conflicts rely on more than one, from hand-to-hand to spaceship combat and all the combinations in between. Don't rely on any one. Let your tactical and strategic thinking, the real conflict winner, create unlimited possibilities as needed.”

  Jordahk wasn't quick to answer. That was good.

  “Like Pops,” he finally said.

  Kord nodded. “Yes, your grandfather still has the power to surprise me.”

  “We've got a last-minute entry,” Vittora said. “He didn't get the whole briefing, but he's from our delegation, and I think turning him away would be more hassle than it's worth. I'll stick close to him and keep things safe if it's alright with you.”

  It was a judgment call, but he trusted Vittora. “Okay, bring them all.”

  Solia led them in. Vittora was at the rear, paying careful attention in a casual way only he would notice. Right in front of her, receiving a fair share of scrutiny, was former Orbital officer Durn Stobahn, now calling himself Darren Starr.

  ▪ ▫ ▪

  Jordahk looked up. Above the rear of the range the opaque crystal of the observation lounge cleared. A formal meal was scheduled for that afternoon and the lounge crowd looked dressed for it. They sipped cocktails and chatted with crew in formal uniform as they awaited entertainment in the form of a venerable Asterfraeo pastime.

  Their clients lined up, appearing similar to groups he'd encountered in previous casual seminar environments. About 60 percent male, mostly vigere, with one sempai couple that acted as if on their third honeymoon. Two families participated together. He liked that. One couple had two young boys, and another a pair of girls well into long adolescence.

  Bringing up the rear—

  What? Him?

  Strapped to Durn's thigh, in a low holster that looked like something out of a Strident Cluster showdown, was a platinum gray… autobuss?

  “You can't be serious.”

  “Looks like an autobuss to me,” Max said.

  “You're no help.”

  Jordahk exchanged glances with his father. Their eyebrows raised, but the show had to go on. Open seminars like this one, which catered to a wide variety of skill levels, were more difficult than those strictly designed for beginners, advanced shooters, or law enforcement. Vittora spent a lot of time teaching the two boys basic marksmanship with a couple small loaner gristers from their weapons trunk. They weren't fitted with rets yet, so their pistol reticles displayed on shooting eyewear.

  Solia might not be a high-end expert yet, but she w
as more than qualified to help the long adolescent girls. They had some small experience already, but also a tendency to giggle.

  He stayed close to Durn, allowing his mother the freedom to move around. The man's autobuss didn't make the same hollow thunk as his. The former Orbital officer wasn't a good shot, but perhaps some of it could be chalked up to the classic weapon.

  Not the easiest pistol to use. I know.

  It was a surprise to see him with it. They ran into the occasional shooter who broke out an autobuss for some fun plinking after a seminar. But it was rare to see anyone actually use one for serious training. The pistol's original design was over two centuries old.

  They didn't have the magazine capacity of modern gristers. Its powerful shots had a recoil to match, despite its renowned capacity for shunting inertia. People had little tolerance for that these days. And a mystic link was required to do anything more than basic fire.

  But Sojourners can make them do impossible things beyond any designer's vision.

  They divided into groups according to skill level and ran through numerous drills. His parents were good at what they did, and after a couple hours everyone had improved. They broke for lunch and brought a few people who needed individualized tutelage to the line.

  Jordahk didn't want to, but his parents trusted him, and duty compelled him to help Durn. The man's shots remained off-target all morning, despite their tips.

  “Come on, Durn. Let's squeeze a few off on the line and see if we can iron out any accuracy issues.”

  “That's Darren now.” Durn looked around to see if anyone was watching. It was a casual environment. No one cared who needed a little extra help. “Well, I suppose us autobuss aficionados have to stick together.”

  Through great effort, Jordahk succeeded in not rolling his eyes. On the line, a 25m shot was set up, and Durn continued to miss the mark, but in a consistent way that Jordahk recognized.